A Puzzle for fools

by Patrick Quentin

  I looked cautiously around the room, but no one was watching me. Then I slipped my hand under the piano cloth and brought out both objects. My ring was one of them, all right The other thing was a silver pencil—my own pencil. She had gotten that too, though how she managed to snitch it from my breast pocket will always be a mystery. But I said that woman was a genius!

  I turned my back on the piano and with a stealth and cunning that even Miss Powell might have envied, I took Laribee's will from my pocket and slid it under the cover. The first part of our scheme had been accomplished now. The will was in the musical place and no one, I was sure, had seen me put it there.

  Geddes was alone when I sauntered over and whispered the news.

  "Good," he said. "Now, I'll work on Fenwick while you take the staff. Nod to me when it's okay and I'll go to sleep by the piano. If anyone takes that will, I'll nod three times, and then the fourth nod will be in the direction of the person who took it."

  Despite the desperate issues at stake, there was something childishly exhilarating about this little plot. In fact, its very importance made it that much more exciting. It seemed like a parlor game, yet it was being played with a real murderer, and the forfeit might be the electric chair.

  I was rather apprehensive about my job of tackling the staff. But Miss Brush and Moreno were talking together, so I had a chance of killing off my first two birds with one stone.

  Miss Brush forgot to smile when I approached. I had the distinct impression that she, as well as Moreno, had fortified herself alcoholically for a difficult evening.

  "I've just remembered something," I said jauntily. "Something about Laribee."

  "S-sh—" Dr. Moreno looked quickly around to see if any of the patients were within hearing.

  "It's probably not important," I continued, "but when we went in to the movies this afternoon, I thought I saw Miss Powell take a paper out of Laribee's pocket." I gave a gulp at my own mendacity. It all sounded so very thin. "And I believe I heard her murmuring something about a—a musical place."

  Moreno's face was impassive.

  "I thought it might mean something to a psychiatrist," I continued. "I don't profess to understand it myself."

  "You said it was a piece of paper?" Miss Brush's voice was tense and jerky.

  "Yes." I stared boldly into her dark blue eyes. "Perhaps it was the paper Laribee wrote when you lent him your fountain pen."

  "That was a letter to his daughter."

  Miss Brush turned her head away and I could not see her expression.

  Moreno made some pompous remark about informing the authorities and gave me an icy dismissal.

  My next attack was upon Stevens. He was standing alone in a corner watching his half-brother with anxious eyes. I asked casually whether he had arranged Fenwick's departure and he went very red.

  "Owing—er—to what has just happened, Duluth, the— er—authorities seem to feel that no one—"

  "By the way," I broke in, "just before the movies Miss Powell..."

  Dr. Stevens did not seem to pay a great deal of attention to my implausible history of the spinster and the will. He shook his head vaguely and was muttering something inaudible when Geddes came up. The Englishman said he felt a bit drowsy. He did not think it would be a bad attack and he asked Stevens’ permission to stay in the lounge even if he should go to sleep.

  "Very well, Mr. Geddes. Ask Dr. Moreno to take you to the surgery. He will give you some of those tablets."

  I knew that Stevens and Moreno were treating Geddes with some new kind of stimulating drug and I knew it did not help much. I only hoped that if the Englishman's attack were genuine and not part of our scheme, it would keep him awake long enough for him to perform his duties as watchman.

  Meanwhile I had to continue my own duties by telling my unlikely story to the other members of the staff. From Mrs. Fogarty I got a sad shake of the head and:

  "Miss Powell, poor thing! And she has such a good mind."

  I moved to Warren and had just finished my little sentence when I noticed Clarke slip unobtrusively out of the room. I wondered if he would be successful in tracing the owner of that bloodstained handkerchief. I wondered if it would mean anything if he did. Then I saw that Geddes had returned and was looking at me hopefully from the other end of the room. I nodded to show him that I had done my part. He strolled with admirable nonchalance toward the piano, and, setting a chair in a strategic position, sat down and started to look sleepy.

  The trap was set now and the stage cleared for action. It remained only for our unknown star to play his part. I felt the double thrill of a producer and a member of the audience as I stood there, leaning against the wall, waiting, watching.

  And as I watched, I noticed a curious phenomenon. Earlier in the evening the patients had all seemed so normal and cheerful that a casual observer entering the room would certainly have given them higher mental rating than the harassed staff. But gradually the atmosphere seemed to change. Eyes that had been bright began to lack luster; conversations were less brisk. It puzzled me at first, and then I realized that Fenwick was the cause. Geddes must have done his work well, for the spiritualist was moving from group to group, beckoning people aside, whispering. And, wherever he went, he seemed to leave a trail behind him of uneasiness and heightened nervous tension. Several times I heard the name of Laribee. The patients were for the first time asking about the absent member, wondering why he was not there.

  Seeing the effect of our crazy spirit warning, I realized once more what a cruel, unfeeling thing it was to work on the susceptibilities of the mentally sick. But I thought of Iris again and glanced anxiously at the clock. Twenty-five minutes to nine.

  "Where's Laribee, Pete?"

  Billy Trent was standing at my side and his youthful eyes were closed. "At lunch today he promised to explain how to sell short on the market. And now Fenwick says that—"

  "You'd better stick to the soda fountain, Billy," I broke in. "I’ll take a banana split."

  Young Trent did not answer for a moment. He was looking down at his shoes.

  "You know, Pete," he said at length, "that's all bunk about me working in a drug store. I've realized the last few days that—"

  Then he went on to talk about how he hoped to get back to college in the fall and about football. It was sane, sensible stuff, and just what you would expect from a nice kid of twenty. I was glad to think he was getting better, that his mind had been too healthy to be affected by all the beastly things which had been happening in the sanitarium.

  Fenwick had glided toward us now, and his voice was as hollow as one of his own spirits. As he spoke, I realized suddenly what a good actor he would have made with his startling face and his vivid gestures. I couldn't tell how sincerely he had accepted Geddes' announcement, but he sounded just as genuine as he had done the night when he announced what to him had been a first-hand spirit message.

  "They have spoken again," he began, and his delicate hand played with his tie. "Laribee has made a new will and—"

  "I heard all about it," I cut in quickly.

  Fenwick started slightly, lowered his luminous eyes and moved toward Stroubel. Faintly I could catch his words as he whispered in the conductor's ear.

  I could see that the staff were worried by this subtle change in the patients. Stevens hurried toward his half-brother and started to talk earnestly with him. Miss Brush redoubled her efforts to get up a bridge game, but met with no success. Mrs, Fogarty circulated her mauve cheerlessness and Moreno grew so jovial that it must have hurt.

  But their combined efforts could not undo Fenwick work. The spirit message and the fact that there was no explanation for Laribee's absence had disturbed the patients almost to a pitch of hysteria.

  I think we should all have been sent prematurely to bed and our plan would have been wrecked, if Lenz had not come in at that moment. The very sight of his beard seemed to produce a sedative effect. Perhaps it was because he was wise enough not to try to look f
alsely cheerful or fatuously optimistic. The expression on his godlike face was such as we might all hope to see on the final day of reckoning, an expression which said:

  "Things have gone a bit wrong, my children. But there's nothing really serious to worry about."

  And he knew another psychiatric ruse to calm jangled nerves. Music! I saw him approach Stroubel and then the two of them moved over to the piano. Lenz held up his hand and smiled around the room with magic benevolence.

  "Mr. Stroubel has kindly consented to play for us."

  He made a sign to Warren, who fetched a stool and opened the piano. For one dreadful moment I thought he was going to remove the cloth. I saw his fingers close around it. Then Stroubel distracted him by fussily handing^ him a vase of flowers to take away.

  Geddes was in place, feigning a most realistic doze. I could detect no movement from him as the great musician drew up the stool and sat down.

  He played The Moonlight Sonata, and, although I have never liked Beethoven in sentimental mood, I must admit that the music got me. It got the others, too. Anxious creases smoothed out on their faces and eyes shone as though reflecting the soft moonlight of the music. Laribee, the sanitarium, their worries, real or imaginary, all were forgotten.

  After Stroubel had finished, Lenz slipped out of the room. But the others crowded around the piano. Even Fenwick, who thought Beethoven dreadfully unaesthetic, hovered close. Stroubel seemed unwilling to give an encore, though both Miss Brush and Moreno went over and urged him.

  But Mrs. Fogarty was a favorite of his, and her plea was more successful. At her request, the old man sat meekly down and gave us a Brahms rhapsody which was breathtaking in its speed and brilliance.

  When it was over, the piano became the pivotal point of the whole room. Geddes must be having a tough job, I thought, keeping an eye on that mob. Finally I went over myself, and, pushing my way through the others, took up my position near the end of the piano, close to the musical place.

  My fingers went sneaking under that ornamental cloth. They fumbled a moment and found—nothing.

  The will was gone! Someone had taken it. Someone who must be within a few feet of me—one of those men and women crowding around Stroubel. The plan had worked.

  Geddes was still in his chair, apparently asleep. I felt almost sick with the fear that perhaps he really had gone off into one of his trances or that the confusion had been too much for him. I stared at him eagerly, hardly daring to approach him.

  Suddenly, his dark eyes opened. They found mine and his head nodded three times. Then he shifted his position slightly, turned and nodded in the direction of a man who was moving away from the piano.

  There was no doubt as to whom he meant. But now that I knew at last, I could hardly believe the truth.

  As unobtrusively as possible, I moved toward Geddes and breathed the name of the person toward whom he had nodded.

  "Yes," came the whispered reply. "He took it all right, and it's in his breast pocket. Watch him."

  Feverishly I looked around for Clarke. He had come back into the room and was standing alone by the door. His face lit up as I told him who it was that I wanted him to watch.

  "I've got to go to Lenz right away," I said hurriedly. "Don't lose sight of him for an instant. I believe he's our man."

  "Shouldn't be surprised," said Clarke, "You see, I’ve been making a search and I found this."

  He took from his pocket a clean, folded handkerchief. I saw at once it was the same general size and texture as the one which had been used to gag Geddes, the one which was stained with Laribee's blood.

  "It was in his room," Clarke whispered.

  We smiled with grim satisfaction.

  "Well, that just about clinches it," I said.

  25

  Leaving Clarke on the job, I strolled back to Geddes who had left the group around the piano now and was waiting expectantly for me in a corner. I told him how Clarke had discovered the owner of the handkerchief and he gave a low whistle.

  "So our balmy-plan did work!" he murmured.

  As we stared at each other, I had a moment of acute nervousness. I felt like a schoolboy who had looked up in the answer-book the solution to an algebra problem but still had no idea of the reasoning which alone could establish that solution. As a case for the police, ours seemed pitifully slim. But a glance at the clock showed me ten minutes past nine. There was nothing for it but to go to the director and try to brazen it out.

  "Come on," I said. "At the risk of having our necks officially wrung, we've got to take this to Lenz right away."

  Geddes fingered his own neck where the red bruises still showed above his collar. "I'm game for anything," he said grimly. "And if there's any neck-wringing, I hope I get a ring-side seat."

  Avoiding the eye of the tiger-colored Miss Brush, we slipped to the door of the lounge and started along the passages toward the director's office. My nervousness had vanished now. I felt excited and unreasonably sure of myself.

  Dr. Lenz was alone when, rather precipitously, we burst into his office. He sat behind his desk, his bearded face bent absorbedly over a book. Our entrance must have made as much noise as a miniature hurricane, but he paid us no attention until his paragraph was finished. Then, very solemnly, he closed the book, laid it on the desk in front of him and said:

  "Well, gentlemen?"

  Geddes and I glanced at each other and, at a slight nod from the Englishman, I took the plunge.

  "Listen, Dr. Lenz," I began, "we've got an idea about these crimes. In fact, we're pretty sure who committed them. You've got to give us a hearing right away. You see—"

  "One moment, please, Mr. Duluth." The director raised a large hand and gave me a pontifical stare over his reading spectacles. "Am I to understand that this theory of yours implies an accusation against one particular individual?"

  "It certainly does," exclaimed Geddes and I in unison,

  "Very well." Portentous fingers removed the spectacles and slipped them into a leather case. The director's eyes fixed us both with the utmost intensity as though, without having heard it, he could gauge to perfection the significance of our information. "I am prepared to have confidence in you," he said at length, "but I would not consider taking the responsibility of hearing what you have to say before the police have been notified. If you have sufficient faith in yourselves, I feel that Captain Green should be informed immediately."

  "We're perfectly ready," said Geddes.

  "Sure we are," I agreed.

  The director's mouth moved in a faint, indulgent smile; the smile of a deity observing the intellectual struggles of the terrestrial.

  "I do not know what discoveries you have made," he said slowly, "but before we have the captain come here, there is one thing I would like to ask you. It is more than possible that you can account for the circumstances of Mr. Laribee's death. But does your theory explain the motive for killing Fogarty and also the means by which he was tied in that strait-jacket?"

  "We can make a pretty shrewd guess at the motive," I said swiftly. "Fogarty must have found out something that made him dangerous."

  "I agree with you, Mr. Duluth. But, this man you are about to accuse—how did he get Fogarty into the strait-jacket?" The director's paternal smile returned. "That is the type of evidence which, more than anything less tangible, is apt to convince the police."

  I felt a little dashed. "We haven't had much time to think this out," I faltered. "As for that angle of it, I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea."

  "You haven't?" Lenz fingered his beard and then added abruptly, "But do not let that concern you. It so happens that I also have been giving the matter some thought And, thanks to this admirable book, I have come upon what I believe to be a satisfactory explanation of that point."

  He picked the book from the desk and held it out for our inspection. It was written by some German-sounding professor and the title was Witchcraft and Medicine.

  "A scientific treatise upon hocus-pocus,"
he murmured. "A very healthy diet for the too ambitious psychiatrist." He opened the book with loving fingers and laid it down again on the desk. "There is a chapter here upon the magic of the theatre, Mr. Duluth. You might be interested in my application of its content to the death of Fogarty. I feel it would strengthen whatever case you have to give to the police."

  As usual, the director's personality had had a markedly subduing effect upon myself and Geddes. We had come to talk, we remained to listen. We stood there in silence while Lenz' eyes scintillated at us, half-serious, half-amused.

  "Our major problem," he began serenely, "is to divine how any man without superhuman strength could manage to truss up a person of Fogarty's powerful physique. To me, the solution is simple now that I have read that book." His tone lowered in mock solemnity. "It is merely a question of magic."

  I nodded weakly. Geddes bent forward and started to skim through the pages of the book.

  "Let us review the case," continued the director. "We may presume that the murderer, for reasons best known to himself, realized that Fogarty had become a menace to his schemes. He decided to kill him and he knew enough psychology to realize that we all have our heel of Achilles. He planned to attack Fogarty in his own individual weak spot, his enthusiasm for the theatrical."

  I glanced quickly at the clock, but the director seemed to feel no sense of time or emergency.

  "Mrs. Fogarty told us," he went on, "that on the night of his death, her husband announced his intention of leaving the sanitarium for the entertainment world. At first I thought that his rather foolish ambitions had been aggravated by your presence here, Mr. Duluth. I now feel that there was another subversive influence which made him choose that particular evening. I believe that on that Saturday the murderer had given his first prick to the heel of Achilles."